Poetry
by Yozora-Hana
Summary: Sherlock's curiosity is piqued when John takes an interest in Keats. Johnlock. Inspired by Benedict Cumberbatch's reading of "Ode to a Nightingale". Youtube it. Trust me on this one, it's good.
1. Chapter 1

John liked poetry.

Or, so it would appear, from the fact that he had a book of Keats' poems on his bedside table.

To Sherlock Holmes, however, it looked completely different.

_Poems of John Keats, small paperback, published by penguin. Small? Not too much of a fan then, could be light reading. Never mentioned liking poetry before, doesn't have any other poetry books in his room. Book looks fairly new, with only small splash of tea on front cover. Was sitting down, then, from the angle of the stain. Paper is only slightly creased- hang on, dog eared corner on one page. Only one? Put it down on bedside table, so not completely uninterested._

_Conclusion- bought the book for (yet) unknown reasons, tried to get into it whilst reading with a cup of tea, found only one passage of interest, plans to read it again._

Hmmm. Which passage?

Reaching for the book, Sherlock suddenly stopped at a small, muffled sound. The door was opening. He had approximately 7 seconds to leave before John trudged into his room and scolded Sherlock for being 'a bit not good'

Mind whirring at a speed that neuroscientists would have swooned at, Sherlock left the book where it was and slid under the bed.

Normally Sherlock would not have cared at all if someone found him snooping in their room, but-

'Snooping'? Well, he wasn't snooping, exactly. He was.. researching.

John is, on the outside, a perfectly simple, dull person. Upon living with him, however, Sherlock had been surprised (and secretly delighted) to find that he was actually a very complex being that kept his brilliance hidden underneath a layer of good will and other boring things.

Whilst John was inwardly brilliant and outwardly normal, Sherlock wasn't afraid to go against the social norm and be-well, brilliant, as John had assured him on many occasions. And John was the perfect amplifier, the best conductor of light.

And he wasn't_ dull. _No, John Watson was extremely complicated, and Sherlock loved that, to be honest. It also helped that he didn't show it outwardly, because that Sherlock readily admitted that he was selfish. He only needed one John, so John should only need one Sherlock..

And it would make things much easier if John wasn't angry at him for being in his room without his permission. Social etiquette, etc etc. Boring.

Mind coming back to reality, Sherlock noted that the bed was now occupied- John had come upstairs and was taking a nap, apparently. He took this opportunity to silently leave the room, only turning once-

_obviously exhausted, skin dry, large bags under eyes, didn't even bother to take off shoes- hard day at work._

__In a rare moment of what John would call 'consideration', Sherlock decided that he'd leave his questioning about John's sudden interest in poetry for later.


	2. Chapter 2

A few days afterwards, John came home to a wrecked flat.

The air smelt of smoke; the wallpaper was singed; and bloody Sherlock-I-don't-give-a-shit-about-the-mess-Holmes was lounging on the sofa; the picture of elegance, as always.

_...elegance?_ no, more like lack of caring for anything in general, John corrected himself hastily.

Looking closer at Sherlock, John's felt himself pale as he saw that he was clutching a book in his hand, a mischievous look on his face. A book of poetry. John's book of poetry.

Oh shi-

_"My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk; or emptied some dull opiate to the drains-"_ Sherlock's baritone voice recited..carefully, slowly, like velvet..

Shaking his head to clear his senses, John took a step forward, and, attempting to muster some anger in his voice (dear god, please don't let it crack)- "Why are you suddenly reciting poetry? You went in my room! And what the hell have you done to the flat?!"

"I'm reciting it because it's so incredibly interesting, John_ (no, I just wanted to see your reaction),_ you actually left this on the kitchen bench (_well, that's not exactly true), _and it was just an experiment. Dull results, anyway." Sherlock said dismissively.

"I didn't leave that on the kitchen bench! I purposefully left it in my room-"

"Why? Liking poetry is hardly something to be ashamed of, John. Oh, and I know this is your favourite, you've read Ode to a Nightingale around 20 times." Sherlock said, an amused look on his face.

"Well- that's-" John began, feeling flustered.

"Shush." Sherlock scolded.

"_ as though of hemlock I had drunk; or emptied some dull opiate to the drains one minute past, and lethe-wards had sunk._

_'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, but being too happy in thine happiness, that thou, light winged-dryad of the trees,_

_in some melodious plot of beechen green and shadows numberless, singest of summer in full-throated ease..."_

John's knees did NOT buckle, he just felt the need to sit down. Suddenly. Sore leg.

Resisting the temptation to close his eyes, he determinedly looked at the wallpaper, trying _so hard_ not to let Sherlock's voice affect him too much.. It was just a voice, after all. Voices weren't sexy. Especially not when they belong to male flatmates. Well, Sherlock wasn't just a male flatmate..

That damn voice washed over him, and John closed his eyes.

-0-0-

Closing the book and continuing to recite, Sherlock looked over at John. He was sitting down now, face flushed; his breathing was sped up, although he seemed to be consciously slowing it. Interesting.

Well, John was obviously aroused by this. Internally grinning and wondering how far he could push him, Sherlock continued to read, putting more emphasis on the words, speaking slower, softer.

_"Away! Away! for I will fly to thee, not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, but on the viewless wings of Poesy,_

_though the dull brain perplexes and retards: already with thee! tender is the night, and haply the queen moon sits upon her throne..."_

__Suddenly, John's eyes snapped open, and -oh, those pupils.

"Enough already, Sherlock.." He growled, and stepped towards him.

Oh, Soldier John's come out to play... He mused internally. Walking towards John, he put his face near his and whispered slowly "_The fancy cannot cheat so well as she is famed to do, deceiving elf!"_

A dazed look in his eyes, John pulled Sherlock down and kissed him. Sherlock, smirking into his _(so, so soft) _mouth, responded eagerly.

-0-0-

Afterwards, both of them lying on the sofa (Sherlock almost about to fall off, all bloody arms and legs), John grinned.

"Thought you said you were married to your work?"

"...I'm not usually one to make exceptions, John, but you're a different matter entirely" Sherlock muttered, combing his fingers through John's sandy hair.

"You were wrong about the poetry, though. I only read it once, that poem. About the bird" John said.

Sherlock stilled suddenly. "Someone else had read it."

"Yep. Molly made me read it, she said she needed to remember it for a bet and she was having trouble, thought I could quiz her on it."

"You didn't even like the poem that much, then." Sherlock summarized.

"Nah, not really. Not really into poetry."

"There's always _something_! Wait, then why did you have such a strong reaction-"

Laughing, John switched their positions so that he was crouching above a bewildered Sherlock, all pale skin and mussed dark hair.

"Have you heard your voice, Sherlock? It's like.. a mixture of dark chocolate and pure sex!" He exclaimed.

Sherlock smiled slowly, and, in a voice like silk and honey, said

"care to test that hypothesis again?"

-end-


End file.
